'Mourning' is such a stagnant word,
a forensic patch one's grief clings to;
If our lives unhinged our souls from these
wintry spells, though intermittent, somehow the storms would never fully pass -
and if you're not careful,
our feet will twist like fork-lightning, body's loss-filled rhythm.
Anne Sexton homed in her co-ordinates
due south of peaceful climes; I watched, the window pane as sharp as knife
cutting blood from eager tongues, elderly folk from the bowling club saw nothing
(or at least it seemed that way, as they sipped their tea, and chattered).
I remembered Alan, my old boss
in the netherworlds of horned beasts and
sons called Ethan riding bikes
on the soreness
of blistered moons; he measured each passing day,
a chisel that pierced his veins, and drove him wild in the dying forests;
there was nothing left for Alan,
overachieving every goal he set, except how to breath, how to see.
We mourn our dew-glazed kin,
we mourn Squanto, planting maize
in worlds built for God, the four elements
Caelus gave us -
fire, water, earth, and slivered glass of sea.
Let the Englishman's God rest his florid crown,
pray that maize will grow like glass falls
from shattered windows,
the rapture matching the soul's lost weekend of rhythm.
Oh Alan, oh Anne, I have the wildest dreams some nights,
I see you as Adam and Eve, and the forests are a circuit board
lingering in electric-blue digital light
About John Doyle:
John Doyle is at present watching Rocky V and wondering why he could have been at such a loose-end to be reduced to this, I mean, seriously...
He accepts all major credit cards, but will start dancing a whole lot sooner if you just point a gun at his feet and fire at will.